IX
Christmas—The strangling of a country—de la Barra—The “mañana game”—Spanish in five phrases—Señora Huerta’s great diamond—The peon’s desperate situation in a land torn by revolutions.
La Noche Buena, Christmas, 1913.
These Christmas hours I have been dwelling on memories of my precious brother on his bed of pain throughout these days last year, his Tod und Verklärung.... But I would call no one back, once through “the door.”
The tree was a great success—though in the morning, when Feliz was hanging the last festoons of green about the room, he crashed down, step-ladder and all, on the side where the toys were piled. There had to be swift runnings down-town to repair the damage. I was so annoyed that I didn’t even ask if he were hurt, and he seemed too aghast at the occurrence to feel any pain. It was very pleasant to have the small remnant of the faithful under one roof. The children played with their toys and we grown-ups exchanged our little offerings and greetings and everything seemed very cozy and safe—just as if we weren’t “riding a revolution.”
Clarence Hay brought N. a bottle of cognac, inscribed: “Nelson from Victoriano,” and a like-sized bottle of grape-juice: “Nelson from W. J. B.” I leave you to guess which we opened.
After the departure of the families, a few of the lone ones stayed—Seeger, Clarence H., Ryan—and we talked until a late hour of the strange adventures we are all living through in this land of endless possibilities.
To-day, after Mass, we drove to the beautiful little Automobile Club, where Seeger gave a luncheon for us, the Tozzers, Clarence Hay, and the Evans. The club is built in the new part of the Park, on the edge of one of the little artificial lakes made when Limantour laid out the Park as it now is. We sat on the terrace toward the high hill of the castle, which breaks the round horizon of the magic hills. The air was soft, yet bright, the moss-hung old ahuehuetes, symbols of grief and mourning, had joyous, burnished, filmy outlines, and the volcanoes were flinging white clouds about their lovely heads. It was one of God’s own days—as days here usually are.